An Ounce of Regret
by starlight1395
Summary: Jefferson had been told he resembles a certain Frenchman, but he never really saw it. One night, that resemblance allowed him to see a darker side to the arrogant, loud moloklkluth that always seemed to be a pain in his side.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings – talk of depression and suicide**

* * *

Jefferson looked disdainfully at the papers in his hands. The last thing he wanted to do was run into the other man, but it was so late that there was no chance he would be in his office – a small consolation. Jefferson wiped his brow and scowled as a hot breeze drifted in the open window. He was used to the weather in France, and coupled with the unseasonably warm weather they have been experiencing left him sweating uncomfortably.

With a sigh Jefferson placed the stack of papers down for a moment and removed his jacket, leaving him in just a loose, white under shirt. He pulled his hair back with a tie and made a disdainful face at his reflection in the mirror. He hated appearing so disheveled around his colleagues, but he figured there wouldn't be anyone to see him at this late hour.

He snagged the papers and set off towards Hamilton's office. He had only been there once or twice before, but everyone knew where it was. No other room in the building had so much traffic in and out of the oak door, nor had as much yelling muffled behind it. As he approached the door, he noted the almost deafening silence of the hallway and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He didn't bother knocking on Hamilton's door, opening it and barging right in. He made a beeline for the desk, which was up against the closest wall and began to leave. A small sound from behind him caused Jefferson to hesitate.

Hamilton's office was almost identical to the others in the building, a heavy wooden desk, a small day bed and different shelves for papers. In his hesitation Jefferson noticed a sharp smell in the air – whiskey and something else equally as bitter. He turned and glanced at the day bed from over his shoulder and felt his face drain of color. The one person Jefferson wanted to avoid the most was sitting on the bed, head in his hands. At the sound of Jefferson in his room, Hamilton lifted his head.

The shorter man looked a wreck. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, and he looked pale enough to worry even Jefferson. Hamilton's unfocused eyes lifted to meet with Jefferson's and time seemed to hiccup for a moment. Hamilton's eyes widened and he sprung from the bed, stumbling over to a shocked Jefferson, who couldn't bring himself to move.

"Lafayette, my friend…" Hamilton murmured in French as he threw his arms around the taller man's neck. Jefferson tried to pull away, but even drunk Hamilton had a curiously strong grip. He had been told that he had a slight resemblance to the Frenchman, but he personally never saw it – though it went to say Hamilton did. It dawned on Thomas that Alexander was fluent in French – a skill no one seemed to be aware of. "My friend, you didn't tell me you were coming to visit."

Jefferson didn't know what to do. Part of him knew Hamilton was weak, and could easily take advantage of him. Another part of him had never seen the immigrant look so genuinely broken. He thought for a split second before making a decision.

"Alexander, I wanted to surprise you." He said back in the same language. He felt a twinge of guilt at pretending to be a man they both considered a friend, but it felt right.

"Laurens…" Hamilton whispered, tears overflowing onto Jefferson's white shirt.

"What about him?" Jefferson whispered back, knowing what the other man was going to say.

"John… he's dead. He died… it's all my fault…" Hamilton buried his face as best as he could into Jefferson's chest and sobbed, the smell of alcohol strong on his breath. Thomas felt his stomach drop. He was glad that anyone passing by would have a hard time listening in on their conversation.

"It is not your fault Alexander-" He tried to reason but the shorter man wasn't listening. He ripped away from Jefferson and stormed over to his desk, covered completely by papers and empty bottles. How had Jefferson not noticed that when he first came in? Hamilton swiped the bottles and papers off, the glass shattering violently on the ground. Jefferson flinched as the glass broke, but Hamilton didn't seem to even notice. He slammed his fists on the bare desk and sobbed again.

"It's my fault!" His French slurred, his English-American accent bleeding into his words. "If I had just gone with him… If I managed to pull myself together and go to him. If I had managed to convince him to stay! But no… he went to fight alone and now he's gone…"

"Alexander, listen to me," Jefferson walked over and placed a hand on Hamilton's back. For a moment, he thought the other man was going to toss his hand away, but Hamilton surprised him by turning and leaning into the touch. Jefferson prayed he knew Laurens well enough to pull this off. "John wasn't the kind of person to listen to anyone. He was always so strong willed. You are not to blame. He would have gone regardless, and he died for something he believed in with his whole heart."

"John… he really did care, didn't he?" Hamilton looked up to him, eyes glistening. "It's getting so hard, my friend. I know I promised you, but it's getting so hard."

"What do you mean?" Thomas asked, this time more as Jefferson than Lafayette. Hamilton sniffled and turned away.

"It's getting bad. All these thoughts… all these regrets… all this responsibility. I never wanted this. I never wanted to be this way. I wish I could have had a normal life, one where I didn't have any of this over my head… I'm not strong enough for this position."

"Alexander, you are more than strong enough. No one can undo your plans. They're flawless. Sure you can be a little bullheaded sometimes but you are more than qualified for this position. If John were still here he would tell you the same thing." Jefferson tried to think of what Hamilton needed to hear, and that seemed to have been it. The shorter man burst into heavy sobs, throwing himself at the other man, who just barely managed to catch him in time.

Jefferson half carried, half dragged Alexander to the day bed and helped him sit. Hamilton was sobbing and hiccupping and babbling apologies and other things in such slurred French that Jefferson couldn't understand him, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. Jefferson sighed and began to undo Hamilton's shoes – he had gotten used to helping drunkards into bed after a long night during his stay in France. Hamilton's sobs began to subside as he complacently allowed Jefferson to move him, almost like a doll. Thomas had to stifle a gasp as he removed Alexander's shirt. He faintly remembered Alexander talking about fighting in the war, but he never imagined it would have left so many marks.

Alexander's torso was littered with scars. There were at least three bullet wounds, bulging and taunt with signs of a sealing burn. His side was torn apart and sewn back together, evidence of shrapnel lodging itself into his flesh. There were burns and a menagerie of other scars covering his lightly tanned skin.

He helped the other man lay back, placing a glass of water on the floor near his head. Alexander seemed to fall asleep almost instantly. Jefferson sighed and stood upright, completely overwhelmed by what had just happened. He never knew the loud mouth, arrogant man now sleeping in front of him had so many demons hidden behind his haughty exterior. Now that Thomas thought about it, he really didn't know much about Hamilton's personal life other than he was an orphan and that he was a massive pain in the neck. He realized as he began to leave the room that Alexander's personality seemed more and more like a mask or a coping mechanism than his real self. Just as he was about to leave, Alexander called out to him.

"Lafayette, please. I need you to do something for me." His French was mixed with English, but it was enough for Thomas to understand.

"What is it?" he asked, moving back towards the center of the room. Hamilton gestured vaguely towards his desk.

"Top drawer," He mumbled, his words slurring more and more. "Take it. I don't trust myself anymore. I came close once today, but seeing you again filled me with strength again my friend. Thank you for giving me hope again." He smiled and buried his head into the pillow, finally falling into a deep sleep.

Jefferson slowly moved over to the desk, almost afraid of what he was going to find. He opened the drawer and felt his face drain. Siting by itself in the drawer was Hamilton's dueling pistol. With a shaking hand, Jefferson lifted the pistol and saw rusty brown fingerprints on the handle. He was smart enough to understand what the other man had meant before he fell asleep.

Thomas tucked the pistol in the waistband of his trousers and left the room, blowing out the candle behind him.

* * *

"I don't understand why anyone would break into my office, destroy my paperwork and steal my dueling pistol!" Hamilton fumed, ranting to an acquaintance during a recess of the most recent debate. Jefferson had been walking by just as the other man spoke and found himself frozen.

"And the pistol was the only thing taken?" The friend asked. Alexander nodded and frowned.

"I feel like I'm forgetting something, but I can't imagine what… though I feel like I should write to a dear friend of mine. I had a dream about him the other night."

Jefferson could feel his heartbeat in his ears as he quickly walked away. Hamilton thought the other night was just a dream. He didn't remember Thomas coming into his office and him breaking down. Didn't remember admitting to almost killing himself and giving Thomas his pistol. Before he could do anything, the conference started again, cutting off any thought he might have had.

* * *

After the conference, Jefferson found himself in his own office, fiddling with the pistol Hamilton had given him a few nights prior. The pistol was in almost pristine condition, sans some scratches on the ivory handle. He was thinking about what Hamilton had said, pondering what he was going to do about the whole situation. He was so deep in thought, he didn't hear the knock at his door.

"Jefferson, I need those papers for Washington. You were supposed to finish them two days ago- is that my pistol?"

"Excuse me?" Jefferson snapped out of his daze and came face to face with an outraged Hamilton.

"My dueling pistol! Why in the world would you steal my pistol?" Hamilton was trying to size up the other man, who was easily two heads taller. Jefferson decided to throw caution to the wind and tell Hamilton the truth.

"You gave it to me." He said simply. Hamilton geared himself up for a biting retort, but Thomas could visibly see him deflate with confusion.

"I… what?"

"You gave it to me, two nights ago."

"Two nights ago… that's when…"

"It wasn't Lafayette that came to your office Alexander," Jefferson felt tired already. He could see the heartbreaking realization setting into Hamilton's eyes as he continued to speak. "I came to your office to drop off some paperwork and you were on the verge of alcohol poisoning. You mistook me for Lafayette because I had my hair pulled back and I didn't know what to say… You said a lot that night Alexander."

"You said my name twice…" Hamilton murmured more to himself that to Jefferson. "What did I tell you?"

"You told me to take your pistol because you didn't trust yourself." Thomas said matter-of-factly. Hamilton's face drained of all color and Thomas was worried for a moment that the other man was going to faint.

"I don't know what you mean," he snapped, reaching for his pistol. "Just give me back my pistol and forget anything I might have said. I wasn't in my right mind."

"I still don't think you are," Jefferson held the pistol above his head, out of the shorter man's reach. "Look, I know you hate me. I know I can never replace Laurens or Lafayette, but Damnit do you know how scared I was? Seeing you like that?"

"I don't know what you mean…" Alexander denied it again, which only frustrated Jefferson more.

"Yes you do," He snapped. "Alexander, you can't keep hiding your pain behind this arrogant mask. You're making more enemies than friends, and that's the last thing you need right now. What would Eliza do if you hadn't stopped yourself? What about Phillip?"

"I didn't think you knew their names…" Hamilton said quietly, looking down at the floor.

"How could I not? You talk about them with such love in your voice."

"Why?"

"Why?" Jefferson had not been expecting such a question from the normally loud man.

"Why did you help me?" Alexander was uncharacteristically quiet, which worried the other man more. This was more than what he has seen the other night.

"Because I know how it feels, Alexander. I know how hopeless you feel. How weak you feel. But you're not either of those things. You aren't what you think about yourself. You are not the cause of Laurens' death, no matter how you try to convince yourself otherwise."

"How could you possibly understand?" Alexander spat.

"Because I've been in the same position. Sometimes death does seem easier than living." Jefferson knew Hamilton was smart enough to know what he meant. The other man grew silent, neither of them speaking for several minutes.

"Keep it." Hamilton said at last.

"What?"

"Keep the pistol. I don't really trust you, but I trust myself even less." Hamilton turned to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Alexander wait," Thomas said, still not sure why he stopped the other man. He took a breath and tried to sound as sincere as possible. "I know you don't trust me, and that we tend to fight a lot, but we aren't enemies. We may not be the closest of friends but we aren't on opposite sides. If you ever feel like you did the other night… come to me? It's always better to drink with another."

Hamilton didn't answer at first, his back still towards Jefferson. Finally, right when Jefferson was going to speak again, Hamilton broke the silence.

"If you want to come by tonight, I have some whiskey in the office." Alexander never looked at Jefferson, but the faint vulnerability was back in his usually obnoxious voice.

"Of course," Jefferson let his hand drop off the other's shoulder. "I'll finish up the paper work for Washington and see if I can bring some food." Hamilton nodded and started to walk away, pausing once again the in the doorway. He looked over his shoulder, finally looking at Jefferson.

"Thomas?" He asked, hesitantly. "Thank you."

Jefferson just nodded, both men knowing the sincerity behind the action.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings- talk of depression, suicide attempts and character death**

* * *

Jefferson sat in his office, trying to figure out what to do. He was losing to Burr – and his was losing more and more support by the day. They thought he was going to betray the country because of his time in France, and yet Arron Burr was so much better despite not having any real alliances to anything or anyone.

He looked towards his drawer, which was locked by a key that only he had a copy of. In the drawer were things that no one was allowed to see – mainly letters from Hamilton. Since Thomas found out that Alexander was suicidal, the two of them had formed an unlikely friendship, one where they exchanged letters of support when the other was in a tight spot.

With a sigh, Jefferson sat back and closed his eyes. He was concerned about his friend – no one had heard from him in almost two months. It was if one day he just vanished, taking his wife and children with him. Although he was worried for Alexander – what could have caused the man to disappear as if he had never existed in the first place? – Thomas had more pressing things to worry about.

The race against Burr was turning more and more in his opponents favor and Thomas was quickly losing ground with the voters. He had no idea how he was going to win this election, and it was keeping him up at night. He wished his eyes would stop burning every time he closed them, but he knew he couldn't sleep – not yet at least. People had been noticing the toll this election had on his body, commenting on how pale he looked and how much weight he had lost.

A knock came from the door. Madison opened the door without waiting for a response, the knock more of a formality than anything else. The other man looked just as tired as Thomas felt, but had a look of grim determination keeping his features alive.

"Sir, the final debate is tomorrow. You need to get some rest. You're no good to the nation if you collapse on stage." Madison said, taking in the disheveled man in front of him.

"I will," Thomas said, taking a deep breath and standing. He stretched, his spine cracking as reached for the ceiling. "I just wanted to finish some things up first." Madison was quiet for a moment.

"Hamilton endorsed you." He said quietly. Jefferson froze, arms still in the air mid-stretch.

"He… what?"

"He endorsed you. His official statement went out this afternoon. The polls are already changing. Burr is still in the lead but the gap is marginally smaller." There was a small, tired smile on Madison's lips. Thomas shot towards his partner, roughly placing his hands on the other man's shoulders.

"You're serious?" He asked. Madison nodded, confirming it. Thomas sat back down heavily, a strange feeling in his chest. "Did Hamilton say anything else?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Madison said warily. "Why?"

"I was just wondering if he had any explanation for where he's been hiding these past few weeks."

"No sir, nothing about that."

"Alright… I'll see you tomorrow before the debate." Thomas waved his friend away.

"Seriously Thomas," Madison said at the doorway. "Get some rest."

Jefferson just nodded and closed his eyes again, trying to get the burning to go away once more.

* * *

Thomas still couldn't believe it.

Somehow – against all odds – he beat Burr. He was now President of the United States of America. He was still in shock that Hamilton's endorsement changed the tides of the election so greatly.

He walked through the halls towards his office, where he needed to grab some papers before going to give some speech or another. He had already given so many that he had lost count. He went to his desk and hesitated. He knew he was needed soon, but something compelled him to open his drawer. The letter directly on top was the most recent one from Alexander, dated a day before he went missing in action.

" _Thomas,"_ the letter began, as did all the letters from Alexander. _"I am afraid things are taking a turn for the worse once again. This time, however, it is not of my own doing. I'm sure you'll be quite surprised to hear that, seeing as I tend to dig all of the holes I fall into myself. My son had challenged another man to a duel and I am beside myself with worry, though there is nothing I can do to sway him. He is just as bullheaded as his father, that much is clear. I hope you are well, or at least better than you were in your last letter. I know this election has been hard, and I'm about ready to challenge Burr to a duel myself, simply for being such a pain in your side. Take care not to overwork yourself, for we all know what a beast you become when you are stressed. Signed, Alexander."_

Thomas frowned at the letter. He had forgotten about what he said about his son. The election had put everything not pertaining directly to winning out of his mind. With a sinking feeling, Thomas prayed that the connection he just made wasn't true.

The clock chimed the hour and Thomas started. He let the letter drop back into the desk and grabbed the speech Madison had written for him before flying out the door. He didn't look back to see the desk was still open.

* * *

"I just have to grab my coat and I can finally go home." Thomas said to himself as he inched down the hall. His feet were on fire from standing for so long, and his voice was hoarse from all the speeches he gave. His head was spinning a little from the champagne that was opened in celebration, and he really just wanted to lie down. He knew he was going to sleep like the dead as soon as his head hit whichever pillow was closest.

He stopped at the door to his office, noting that it was open just a crack. Cautiously, Thomas pushed the door open to show a figure standing at his desk, rummaging through the top drawer. Thomas instantly jumped at the person, prepared to throw them away from the private letters that were supposed to be locked away. Just as he was about to yell, the figure spoke.

"Congratulations Thomas." The figure said softly. Thomas stopped dead and really looked at the person who had broken into his office. The blood drained from his face as he realized this disheveled person was Alexander, seemingly back from the dead.

He had lost a considerable amount of weight, his black jacket hanging loosely on his frame. His face was more gaunt – or at least what Thomas could see of his face. His hair was greying, more so than it should have in the short time he had been absent. The most disturbing thing, however, was the thick bandage wrapped around his forehead.

"Alexander…" Thomas was at a loss for words. "What in the world happened to you?" Hamilton gave a weak chuckle and pulled the desk chair out for Jefferson.

"It didn't work…" Hamilton said sadly.

"What happened to your head?"

"Did you hear about Phillip?" Alexander asked suddenly. Thomas just shook his head. There really hadn't been any word on any of the Hamilton's after they disappeared. Alexander chuckled again, but it sounded more insane than amused. "He was killed in a duel… we only got a few moments with him before he passed away…"

"Oh god, Alexander I'm so sorry…" Thomas genuinely couldn't even begin to imagine the absolute agony the man across from him must be going through. "But, where did you go?"

"Eliza and I took the kids uptown… we couldn't handle being in that house anymore. Every moment in those walls was a never ending nightmare. All I could hear was his laughter and his footsteps. I thought I saw him around every corner… there were some nights where I swore he was standing right in the other room, helping his brothers learn the piano... but no one was touching the piano anymore… after all that, I couldn't take it anymore."

"Alexander, what happened to your head?" Thomas had a sinking feeling he knew what happened, but was praying to any god that would listen that he was wrong.

"My hands were shaking too much," Alexander whispered, his expression hidden by the bandage. In the faint candle light, Thomas could see a dark stain on the white across his forehead. "I just wanted to see my son again but my hands were shaking too much… the bullet grazed my forehead rather than going through it." He gave a strangled chuckled that quickly turned into a small sob.

"Alexander…" Thomas was at a loss for words. Through everything, through all the breakdowns and close calls and drunken nights, he never thought Alexander would go that far.

"I regret it…" Hamilton whispered. A small bit of hope blossomed in Thomas' chest. If Alexander regretted it, then there was a chance he might be able to recover. He had hope, that was, until Alexander continued to speak. "I regret not finishing the job. I deserved it. I'm the one who gave his the pistol. I'm the one who told him to aim at the sky. If he had actually aimed at the demon who stole his life, maybe he would still be here… I should have died. I could have been with him again. I could have been with John and my mother again… I don't belong here Thomas. I don't deserve to live anymore."

Thomas' hand moved on its own accord. The sharp slap was muffled by the linen wrapped around Hamilton's head. Both men froze in shock, neither truly comprehending what just happened. Thomas took his hand back, cradling it to his chest. Alexander brought his own hand up to his cheek, trying to dull the sudden throbbing.

"None of that is true Alexander," Thomas basically spat. "What would Eliza do? What of the rest of your children? What about us in the government? What would we do if you really did just disappear for good? You would leave such a gap in everyone's lives. Hell, the cabinet basically fell apart these past few weeks without you!"

"Really?" Hamilton's eyes were wide with disbelief. Thomas nodded, a little shocked that Alexander didn't see it.

"How would Eliza have felt, losing her son and her husband? Being left all alone to care for and raise her children?"

"I…"

"You didn't think of that." Thomas supplied. Alexander hung his head in guilt.

"Thomas, I'm so sorry-"

"You don't have to apologize Alexander. You just have to prove to me and everyone else that you're strong enough to grow from this. Strong enough to move past this. You're a great man, Alexander, and I know you can overcome this. You can never replace Philip, I understand that. But you can work towards a future he would be proud of. You could become a man your son would have been proud of Alexander."

"Thank you Thomas…" Alexander sobbed, collapsing onto his knees. Thomas dropped down next to him, wrapping his arms around the other man's shoulders. Normally they weren't overly fond of physical contact like that, but neither of them complained in that moment. Alexander rested his head on Thomas' shoulder as he sobbed, weeks of pent up sadness and grief spilling out all at once. Thomas didn't say anything – he just let his friend cry.

"Do you want something to drink?" Thomas offered once Alexander had slowed his sobs into hiccups. The shorter man silently nodded, wiping his eyes on the sleeves of his mourning jacket. "We need to catch up. A lot has happened in the past few weeks."


End file.
